The Flemish House (8 page)

‘The midwife's
garden?'

‘Yes … we share the vegetables
…'

Maigret noticed some rounded shapes in
the ashes. He prodded them with the tip of the poker and discovered some potatoes in
their skins. He understood. He imagined the man, all on his own, in the middle of
the night, eating potatoes and gazing into the void.

‘Does your son never come and see
you at the factory?'

‘Never!'

Here too the drops of rain were falling
one by one outside the door, giving an irregular rhythm to life.

‘Do you really think your daughter
was murdered?'

The man didn't reply straight
away. He didn't know where to look.

‘Since the moment that Gérard
…'

And suddenly, with a sob in the depths
of his throat:

‘She wouldn't have killed
herself … She wouldn't have left …'

It was unexpectedly tragic. The man
mechanically filled his pipe.

‘If I didn't think that
those people …'

‘Do you know Joseph Peeters
well?'

And Piedboeuf looked away.

‘I knew he wouldn't marry
her … They are rich people … And we …'

There was a fine electric clock on the
wall, the only luxury in this cabin. Opposite, a blackboard on which someone had
written in chalk:
Not hiring
.

Lastly, near the door, a complicated
apparatus with a big wheel for recording the time at which the workforce arrived and
left.

‘Time for my round …'

Maigret almost suggested going with him,
to reach further into this man's life. Piedboef put on a shapeless oilskin
that flapped against his heels and picked up from a corner a hurricane lamp that was
already lit, so that all he had to do was lengthen its wick.

‘I don't understand why
you're against us … Perhaps it's natural, after all! … Gérard says that
…'

But the rain interrupted them, because
they had reached the courtyard. Piedboeuf guided his guest to the gate that he was
going to close before he did his round.

One more source of astonishment for the
inspector. From there he could see a landscape cut into equal slices by the iron
bars: the barges moored on the other side of the river, the Flemish house and the
illuminated front window, the quay where electric lights drew circles of light every
fifty metres.

From here you had a very clear view of
the customs building and the Café des Mariniers …

Most importantly, you could see the
corner of the alleyway with the Piedboeufs' house second on the left.

The third of January …

‘Has your wife been dead for a
long time?'

‘Twelve years next month … She
suffered with her chest …'

‘What does Gérard do at this time
of day?'

The lamp dangled at the end of the night
watchman's arm. He had already put a big key in the lock. A train whistled in
the distance.

‘He must be in town …'

‘You don't know which
side?'

‘The young people tend to meet at
the Café de la Mairie!'

And Maigret hurried off again through
the rain, into the darkness. It wasn't an investigation. It had no starting
point, no foundation.

There were only a handful of humans each
getting
on with their own lives in the little windswept town.

Perhaps they were all sincere. But
perhaps one of them concealed a tormented soul, frightened to death at the thought
of the bulky form roaming these streets at night.

Maigret passed in front of his hotel
without going in. Through the windows he could see Inspector Machère, holding forth
in the middle of a group that included the landlord. It looked like the fourth or
fifth round of drinks. The landlord had just bought his.

Machère, very animated, was waving his
arms around and must have been saying:

‘These detective chief inspectors
who come from Paris have notions of themselves …'

And they were talking about the
Flemings! They were tearing them to shreds!

At the end of a narrow street there was
quite a spacious square. On one corner, a café with a white frontage and three
well-lit windows: Café de la Mairie.

A noise that welcomed you as soon as you
opened the door. A zinc counter. Tables. Card-players at red baize tables. Smoke
from pipes and cigarettes and a sharp smell of stale beer.

‘Two beers, two!'

The sound of counters on the marble
tabletop near the cash register. The waiter's white apron.

‘Over here!'

Maigret sat down at the first table he
came to, and first saw Gérard Piedboeuf in one of the tarnished mirrors in
the bar. He was very animated, like Machère. He stopped short as
he saw Maigret, and his foot must have touched those of his companions.

One male companion, two female. There
were four of them at the same table. The young people were the same age. The women
were probably lowly factory girls.

They all fell silent. Even the
card-players at the other tables called out their points in an undertone, and their
eyes were fixed on the new arrival.

‘A beer!'

Maigret lit his pipe, and put his
dripping bowler hat down on the brown moleskin banquette.

‘One beer, just one!'

And Gérard Piedboeuf assumed an ironic
and contemptuous smile and muttered under his breath:

‘The friend of the Flemings
…'

He had been drinking too. His pupils
were too shiny. His purple lips offset the pallor of his complexion. It was clear
that he was very excited. He was playing to the gallery. He was trying to find
something to say to shock his lady companions.

‘You realize, Ninie, when
you're rich you won't have to worry about the police any more
…'

His friend gave him a nudge to make him
shut up, but it only made him more worked up.

‘What? Aren't we allowed to
say what we want any more? … I repeat that the police are at the disposal of the
rich, but as soon as you're poor …'

He was pale. Basically he had frightened
himself with
his words, but he wanted to preserve the halo that his
attitude gave him.

Maigret removed the foam that covered
his glass and took a great gulp of beer. The card-players could be heard murmuring,
to break the silence:

‘A flush …'

‘Four jacks …'

‘Your deal!'

‘I'll cut!'

And the two little factory workers who
didn't dare to turn and look at the inspector arranged themselves so that they
could see him in the mirror.

‘You would think it was a crime to
be French in France! Particularly if you're poor as well …'

At the till, the landlord frowned and
turned towards Maigret, who didn't look at him, hoping to indicate to him that
the young man was drunk.

‘Spades! … And spades again! … Eh?
You weren't expecting that …'

‘People who have made their
fortune by smuggling!' Gérard went on, keen to be heard by the whole bar.
‘Everyone in Givet knows! Before the war it was cigars and lace … Now, since
alcohol is forbidden in Belgium, they serve genever to the Flemish sailors … Which
allows their son to become a lawyer … Ha ha! He'll need it, to defend himself!
…'

And Maigret stayed alone at his table,
the focus of all the customers' attention. He hadn't taken off his
overcoat. His shoulders were glistening with rain.

The landlord became agitated, foreseeing
trouble, and approached the inspector:

‘Please ignore him … He's been
drinking … And the grief …'

‘Let's go, Gérard!'
the little woman beside the young man murmured anxiously.

‘So that he thinks I'm
scared of him?'

He still had his back to Maigret. Each
could see the other only in the mirrors.

Now the other customers were only
playing for the sake of appearances, and forgetting to mark the points on their
tiles.

‘A brandy, please! … Time for a
drink! …'

The landlord almost refused but
didn't dare, given that Maigret was still pretending not to notice him.

‘It's a complete outrage! …
That's what it is! … These people take our daughters and kill them as soon as
they've had enough of them … And the police …'

Maigret imagined old Piedboeuf, in his
dyed uniform, doing the rounds of the workshops by the light of his hurricane lamp,
coming back to his nice warm corner to eat his potatoes.

Opposite, the Piedboeuf house: the
midwife must have put the child to bed and was waiting for her own bedtime, reading
or doing some knitting.

Then, further off, the Flemish grocery,
old Peeters being woken and led to his bedroom. Madame Peeters lowering the
shutters, Anna, all by herself, undressing in her room …

And the barges slumbering in the current
that stretched the moorings, made the rudders creak and the dinghies collide …

‘Another beer!'

Maigret's voice was calm. He
smoked slowly, blowing puffs of smoke towards the ceiling.

‘You'll all have noticed
that he's taunting me! … Because he is taunting me …'

The landlord was desperate and had run
out of ideas. A scandal was erupting.

For, at those last words, Gérard had got
to his feet and was standing in front of Maigret at last. His features were drawn,
his lips contorted in anger.

‘I tell you that he's only
come here to annoy us! … Look at him! … He's laughing at us, because
I've had a drink … Or rather because we haven't got any money
…'

Maigret didn't move. It was
insane! He was as motionless as the marble of his table. He had his hand on his
glass. He was still smoking.

‘Diamonds trumps!' said
someone optimistically, in the hope of creating a diversion.

And then Gérard took the cards from the
card-players' table and threw them across the room.

Suddenly half the customers were on
their feet, not daring to come forwards, but ready to intervene.

Maigret sat where he was. Maigret
smoked.

‘But look at him! He's
taunting us! He knows my sister was murdered …'

The landlord didn't know where to
put himself. The two little women at Gérard's table looked at each other
anxiously, and had already measured the distance they were from the door.

‘He doesn't dare say
anything! You'll notice that he
doesn't dare open his
mouth! He's scared! Yes, he's scared that the truth will come
out!'

‘I swear to you that he's
been drinking!' the landlord cried, seeing Maigret get to his feet.

Too late! Of all of them, it was
probably Gérard who was the most frightened.

That dark, wet mass coming towards him
…

He moved his hand briefly towards his
pocket, and that movement was accompanied by a loud scream from a woman.

The young man was drawing a revolver.
But Maigret caught it in mid-air with his hand. At the same time, he stuck his foot
out and sent Gérard sprawling.

At most, one customer out of three knew
what was happening. And yet now they had all got to their feet. The revolver was in
Maigret's hand. Gérard got back to his feet, with a fierce expression on his
face, humiliated by his defeat.

And while the inspector put the gun in
his pocket, with a gesture as calm as it was natural, the young man panted:

‘So are you going to arrest me,
then?'

He wasn't standing up yet. He was
pulling himself up with his hands. It was pitiful.

‘Go to bed!' Maigret said
slowly.

As Gérard seemed not to understand, he
added:

‘Open the door!'

There was a gust of fresh air in the
stifling atmosphere. Maigret held Gérard's shoulder and pushed him towards the
pavement.

‘Go to bed!'

And the door closed again. There was one
person fewer in the bar: Gérard Piedboeuf.

‘He's blind drunk!'
muttered Maigret, sitting back in front of the beer he had just begun.

The customers didn't know what
they were supposed to do. Some of them had sat down in their seats again. Others
were hesitating.

Then Maigret, after taking a sip of
beer, sighed:

‘It doesn't
matter!'

Then, turning to his neighbour, who
didn't know what was going on, he added:

‘You were saying that diamonds
were trumps …'

Maigret had decided to sleep in, less out
of laziness than for want of anything better to do. It was about ten o'clock
when he had an unpleasant awakening.

First of all there was a violent
knocking at his door, which he hated more than anything. Then, his senses still
befuddled, he made out the rattle of rain on the balcony.